Bleed Out Of Me
by PinkFreud
Summary: April muses from beyond the grave. Warning: contains self mutilation and suicide.


Title: Bleed Out Of Me

Fandom: RENT

Pairings: Roger/April implied

Summary: April muses from beyond the grave. WARNING contains self mutilation/suicide. Not for everyone. (One-shot)

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I dont own RENT, it belongs to the late Jonathon Larson, Goddess rest his soul.

A/N This is just something really morbid that I sat down and wrote, I dont know where it came

from. It was really more of an experiment in empathy, because I normally detest the character

April, this was something I did for myself to stretch my compassion a little. Make any sense?

Didnt think so...

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I was just a girl, a girl who fucked up completely. I tried to blame everyone else, blame him,

blame god, blame whoever was around; but in the end, it was just me.

Me who caused all my problems.

I dont know where it all even started, now.

I dropped out of high school when my mother died and left on a bus to New York. It seemed like

a good idea at the time, you know. It was ''the thing'' to do, get the fuck out of Jersey and go to

where the lights were brighter,and days were endless. A place where I could be free.

But it ended up being a worse prison than any other.

I used to hang out in dives, in cheap motels and bars. I used to spend nights with random guys

whose faces I could not remember a week later.

I used to go to clubs, I used to dance.

I would dance until I dropped because it was the only thing that kept the relentless screaming in

my head quiet: the dark undercurrent of depression running beneath the shrieking, clawing manias

that made me feel like I was going to fly right out of my body.

It was the only thing that would keep it quiet, until I discovered smack.

I really didnt intend for it to be that way. Sure, I used to drink to dull myself, I used to smoke pot

to feel numb..I had never tried anything this big, before.

I was like, gross..needles, the thought had never occurred to me. But soon, I didnt even give the

needle a second thought; in fact, I welcomed it. The cold bite when it entered my skin and then the

lovely feelings that would wash over me. I would feel, just for a moment, that I was ok.

It was never ok, you know. It was always hard, life was miserable. I tried to kill myself in the tenth

grade. I swallowed a whole bottle of my mothers valium and had to have my stomach pumped.

I just lay on the floor, staring up at the white ceiling and waiting to die.

Then, of course, my bastard brother found me and called an ambulance.

They said I was possibly bi-polar, recommended Lithium that my parents couldnt pay for. So, I

just didnt take anything. I used to cut myself to make the madness stop.

There was some weird kind of perverse relief in seeing my own blood...I remember just thinking,

''maybe it will all bleed out of me, now.''

It was a fucked-up sort of ritual bloodletting.

Ah, memories.

But, you know, of all the things I miss most about being alive, I miss him.

He was fun, he was gorgeous, he was wild, he was sexy.

He could sing; he made me laugh, he made me cry.

He was everything.

His name was Roger.

I met him one night at a club where his band was playing.

I was manic, I was flying, and everything was beautiful...too beautiful. See, thats the thing about

mania. Its so beautiful and bright that its terrifying.

Youre really not sure if youre in heaven or hell.

But he was there, playing the guitar, and our eyes met; thats how it started.

With eyes.

And it was my fault you know, looking back. I got him hooked on smack, I killed him.

And when I died, I wasnt feeling sorry for myself, fuck no, I was happy. I was happy it was all

going to be over.

The last thing I thought about was him.

And how I killed him, and how I was sorry; sorry for being such a fucking coward and taking the

easy way out. I was just sorry.

I really loved him; I did. He used to sing to me.

He used to hold me when I cried, he used to kiss me and hold me. He made me happy, for

however brief a time.

And I couldnt stand it, the guilt.

The feeling it was my fault he was now doomed.

So, I filled a bathtub up with water, and I remember feeling numb, yet almost laughing somehow

as the water came rushing and swirling. It would all be washed away.

And I remember holding the razor in my hand like it was an old beloved friend, and I said ''hello

darling, I remember you.'' And then I drew a lovely line on both my wrists, and I sank lower in the

water, thinking about his eyes, and watching everything in the world around me turn red. Feeling

clean, like it was all being poured out, all the sickness; the disease, the pain, everything that had

ever hurt me or broken me or made me cry was just washing away.

And then it faded to dark, and I was just so relieved, I almost cried.


End file.
